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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881805">Rosemary, Mint, and Thyme</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastel/pseuds/pastel'>pastel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Assassins &amp; Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Convenience Store, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Break Up, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Pokemon, Pre-Slash, Prophetic Visions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:56:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastel/pseuds/pastel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>NCT Drabble/Request Collection</p><p>1. markrenmin fantasy library au<br/>2. jaemren prophet au<br/>3. nohyuck dollar store au<br/>4. markno pokemon au<br/>5. renmin haikyuu au<br/>6. chenji ghost au<br/>7. markrenhyuck assassin au<br/>8. noren slow apocalypse au<br/>9. nohyuck breakup au<br/>10. markren pirates au<br/>11. rensung office au<br/>12. nohyuck historical fantasy au</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Huang Ren Jun/Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee, Huang Ren Jun/Lee Jeno, Huang Ren Jun/Mark Lee/Na Jaemin, Huang Ren Jun/Na Jaemin, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Lee Jeno, Lee Jeno/Mark Lee, Park Jisung/Zhong Chen Le</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. markrenmin fantasy library au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi! so i'm a pretty short writer, usually, with more ideas than i know what to do with, so this is just a place for me to put all of my drabbles/thoughts and pieces/so on and so forth! maybe i'll expand them someday, maybe this is the size that they fit best.</p><p>also, a number of these are from the 00ff round one discord speedwrites, so if you participated in that you might recognize a few of these!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>written for 00ff speedwrites round 2, library/books</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Renjun had always thought the Royal Library seemed a little bit much, for a building. Its stacks were labyrinthine, quick-oiled wheels on meandering tracks that never seemed to be in the same place, no matter how frequent his visits. </p><p>
Even from the outside, it was impressive -- a gaping maw of a door framed by jewel-bug windows, twin balconies as eyes. Curtains billowed out from the upper stories like hair or heaving lungs, the heady smell of old parchment tumbling into the street.
</p><p>Most strikingly, statues of two lions stood out front, so frighteningly lifelike in their sculpture that passing between them sent every hair on Renjun's body standing at fearful, worshipful attention.
</p><p>However, the library never <em>scared</em> Renjun.
</p><p>Its librarians, on the other hand - </p><p>
He could do without them. There were two of them, two men of indeterminable age and inaudible footsteps. Often, when he was curled up in the shelves, fragile book spread wide across his lap, they would approach him, silent as the words on the page.
</p><p>"Renjun, what are you reading today?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. jaemren prophet au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>written for 00ff speedwrite round 9, supers</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaemin saw <em>it</em> in the colors of autumn. Red, gold, purple, brown, the most human of colors. The world through the skin of his eyelids.</p><p>
It happened, occasionally, but rarely could he see so vividly, so clearly. The boldness of the reds, the glamour of the gold. The way purple and brown swam at the edges of his vision, vultures hovering over the weeks to come.
</p><p>“Jaemin?” Renjun’s voice was quiet and reedy, sleep-clumsy but still so much like the sound of shoulders slipping through a field of wheat ready for harvest. The coming of autumn.</p><p>
He felt Renjun’s small, warm hand against his chest. He felt the duvet wound between and around them.
He felt his own jackrabbit heart, useless in the serpent’s den.</p><p>
“Yeah, sorry, just a nightmare,” He laughs in a whisper, hoping his agitation won’t carry.</p><p>
Jaemin can’t see the responding frown on Renjun’s face in the dark of their bedroom, but he can hear it. “You were talking in your sleep,” Renjun’s hand slides up the worn cotton of his sleep shirt, gathering the fabric as it moves upward, “you’re sweating.”
</p><p>“It’s <em>fine</em>,” Jaemin insists, reaching up from his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the mattress to gingerly remove Renjun’s hand from his chest.</p><p>
“I’m fine,” he repeats, rolling onto his side to lay facing away from Renjun, because it is one thing to be a prophet, but it’s another to be their lover.
</p><p>He has heard too many stories and seen too many dreams to dare to risk it, borrowed memories of blood-streaked eyes and torn-out throats. Even if what he has dreamt strikes fear into his heart, nothing is more terrifying than the thought of losing Renjun.</p><p>
Red, gold, purple, brown. Autumn is coming, and Renjun cannot know.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. nohyuck dollar store au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>written for 00ff speedwrites round 22, neck &amp;/dollar store</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The store’s logo is pink. The kind of pink little girls paint their walls. Candy-stain pink. Barbie car pink. A chemical pink, only naturally found in the corners of eyes and open wounds and rainforest orchids.</p><p>It’s cheap pink, ninety-nine cent pink.</p><p>As a matter of principle, Donghyuck hates it. </p><p>“I can’t wear this color any longer,” he says to Yeri across the counter, chewed-up fingernails tapping against the stained linoleum.</p><p>“How unfortunate,” she replies, throwing her hair over one shoulder. Her gum -- pink, pink bubblegum -- snaps as she chews.</p><p>That’s what she’s here to do, chew gum and keep Donghyuck company in his stupid pink work polo.</p><p>And -- well, Donghyuck doesn’t like to admit this part.</p><p>And she’s here to watch his coworker. While Donghyuck mans the checkout counter, customer-service smile stuck like superglue, the other boy on shift wanders the aisles, making sure everything in the dollar store is as it should be.</p><p>“See,” Yeri says, one painted nail like a bullet in the air, “you can tell that he’s, like, actually hot because the pink doesn’t even look bad on him.”</p><p>Donghyuck hates to admit it, but she’s right.</p><p>Lee Jeno has dark hair and pale skin -- blank-canvas skin, Donghyuck would call it, because Jeno is a blank-canvas kind of boy.</p><p>Yeri likes to think he’s a bad boy. She imagines he has a motorcycle parked at the back of the strip mall, wears leather jackets on the weekends. She has an entire universe -- a future and a past and everything in between -- based on the way Jeno hunches his back, shuffles his feet.</p><p>Donghyuck -- Donghyuck doesn’t want to say he knows better, but he knows better.</p><p>(It’s a point of internal conflict, really. He doesn’t -- he doesn’t want to hurt Yeri’s feelings because she’s practically an extension of himself, but yet -- but yet his heart beats, stupidly and insistently and entirely in Jeno’s direction. Donghyuck hasn’t confronted it, and like hell he’s told Yeri about it, not when she’s -- Donghyuck prefers not to think about it.)</p><p>Lee Jeno’s phone lockscreen is a blurry picture of a cat, asleep on cheap grey bedsheets. To Donghyuck, that says more than the line of Jeno’s nose or the pitch of his voice, his slick black hair or jutting adam’s apple.</p><p>Maybe Donghyuck has a few fantasies of his own.</p><p>“I mean, I guess so,” he replies.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. markno pokemon au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>expanded from a speedwrite</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is at once incredibly easy and incredibly difficult to spot change in Snowpoint City. On one hand, the whole town is a canvas of white, so any aberration - any sign of life - stands out like a warning sign. On the other, the snow never stops coming down, so ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ is pretty much the definition of all of Snowpoint’s goings-on.</p><p>Sometimes, Mark wonders what the scientists of the future will find buried at Snowpoint, once the tides have shifted and the climate reversed. He’s heard about it, the great tropical Pokèmon buried under Lake Acuity’s snowdrifts - what will Snowpoint City be, when the snow has melted away? What story will it tell?</p><p>In many ways, Mark’s job is to be a modern-day version of his daydream archaeologists. He’s the son of Snowpoint City’s Nurse Joy, and while she heals the Pokemon, he helps the people.</p><p>At first it started off as just his mom. Being Nurse Joy isn’t easy, even or maybe <em>especially</em> in a place as cold and remote as Snowpoint City. They say the sky works hard up here in Snowpoint, but Mark’s mom works harder. Mark grew up without his dad around - as far as he’s concerned the man is off living his life, somewhere in Alola - so his mom split her time between taking care of her son at home and taking care of everyone in Snowpoint at work.</p><p>Mark still has memories from his childhood: globs of hair in the shower, stains in her home-clothes where her shaky hands had spilled her food, the trance-like state she entered in the quiet hour between ten and eleven at night after Mark had been officially put to bed and she could watch her favorite dramas with the volume at three percent.</p><p>So as soon as he was old enough to figure it out, Mark decided it was his job to help his mom out.</p><p>(Actually, it had taken a distressingly long time for Mark to realize that his place in life was to stay here and help her - like every fresh-faced sixteen year old, he wanted to go out on his very <em>own</em> Pokèmon journey. Blind eye turned to the shadows in his mother’s skin, Mark had taken his Chansey and headed out into the world. Of course, Snowpoint City wasn’t the easiest place to start a Pokèmon journey, even for a native like Mark, so he’d gotten as far as Route 217 and a Snover in his party before he had to turn back and find a Pokemon Center. The closest had been his mother’s, of course, back in Snowpoint City.)</p><p>There are late nights when he still thinks about what could have happened if he and Chansey hadn’t come back to the Center at that moment. If, in his bullheadedness, he had run straight to the Center in the next city, or if Chansey and Snover hadn’t fainted in battle against a Sneasel. </p><p>Like the seasonal transition of icy snow to fluffy snow, Mark isn’t sure when he stopped thinking of that point in time with the fondness of ‘<em>what could have been</em>’, rather than the white-hot anger and panic and disappointment that had taken over his life in the weeks following.</p><p>He’s taking online classes at the Trainer School, now. Continuing Studies, they’re called, courses in Pokemon behavior and psychology. He’d started at the urge of his mother, who still wanted her only son to have a chance at making the world - his <em>life</em> - his own </p><p>As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s worked.</p><p>He’s been nurturing a little dream, a half-molted little thing. He’d like to become a Pokemon researcher, maybe even up there with Professor Rowan.</p><p>See - he can’t get it out of his mind, how instantly Chansey had sprung to action, </p><p>--</p><p>Jeno doesn’t plan to stay in Snowpoint City for long. He’s not built for the cold - and neither are his pokemon, save for his Ursaring, who holds them all against her warm, warm stomach as they make the trek up Route 217. It’s so bitterly cold that the first place he heads is the Pokemon Center, Wynaut gone floppy in his numb arms. It’s dinnertime, but he doesn’t know it, the sky overcast and his fingers too frozen to pull out his Poketech.</p><p>He all but falls into the Center, the only thing keeping him from collapsing into a shivering pile on the welcome mat Ursaring’s steady, stable paw against his chest. Slowly, Jeno picks himself up, warmth slowly and oh so painfully returning to each individual finger. When he looks up, though, the shock that shoots through his body is enough to wake him all the way down to his frozen toes. </p><p>That’s - that’s <em>not</em> a Nurse Joy. No, it’s not. </p><p>That’s a boy.</p><p>What the <em>fuck?</em></p><p>He’s leaning against the counter, clearly watching Jeno with interest. Jeno hesitates putting Ursaring back in her pokeball, but does it anyway, his walk up to the counter slow because of both his legs-turned-popsicles and his distrust of this Nurse Joy imposter.</p><p>“I’m looking for, uh, Nurse Joy?”</p><p>God, he hadn’t realized he was so dehydrated, the words burning against his throat as they leave.</p><p>“Uh, my mo- uh, Nurse Joy is on dinner break, right now, but I can help you?” The boy’s voice cracks at the end of his sentence, but Jeno still doesn’t trust him. Eyes narrowed like Bongshik’s when he comes home from another adventure, smelling like a different continent, Jeno hands over his pokeballs. This, at least, he can’t mess up, right?</p><p>The Nurse Joy boy - Nurse Boy? That seems wrong, somehow - puts Jeno’s party into the machine. The familiar beeping tune it plays as it whirrs to life, healing his pokemon, is reassuring, but Jeno can’t help but think this boy, with his wide eyes and messy hair, is a bad omen for the rest of his time in Snowpoint .</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. renmin haikyuu au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>expanded from an 00ff speedwrite, renmin as kyouhaba</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The squeak of sneakers on a freshly-waxed floor.</p><p>The satisfying <em>slap</em> of volleyball against skin.</p><p>The sound of the volleyball hitting the ground, no way to stop it? Even better.</p><p>Jaemin can feel his chest heaving, the real-actual <em>creak</em> of his ribcage. The slow descent of the sweat at his temples. His heartbeat in his feet, his eyes on the water bottle, knocked over. </p><p>He did it.</p><p>Ten’s jump float serve.</p><p>But before he can relish in his success any longer, he hears the <em>swoosh</em> of the gym door being forced open. Only one person opens doors that way --</p><p>“What the fuck are you doing here?” And he beats Jaemin to it, yet again.</p><p>Huang Renjun stands in the doorway, unconcealed rage in his eyes. He’s not wearing the characteristic green and white jersey of their team - he doesn’t have one. Jaemin knows this because Renjun skipped the first day of real practice the minute he saw Kun wasn’t there. Jaemin had been right behind him, had seen the instant, weightless turn Renjun had made on his heel as soon as he saw Ten standing alone by the box of their new uniforms for the year.</p><p>Renjun had knocked against his shoulder, then, the anger around him so thick it made it hard for Jaemin to swallow. He hadn’t apologized that day, and Jaemin wasn’t going to now.</p><p>“I’m <em>practicing</em>,” Jaemin spits, “Not that you would know what that is.” He feels bad about holding the volleyball as tight as he is - it doesn’t deserve it, it’s done nothing wrong - but he can’t help the sheer and unexplainable rage the sight of Renjun sets alight, like a cigarette to a garbage fire.</p><p>Renjun snorts. “Makes sense, I guess. Ten fucking sucks, but you’re miles behind him.” He sets down his gym bag carelessly, no respect to the floor Jaemin’s precious underclassmen Jisung and Chenle had spent cleaning for a good thirty minutes after their team practice.</p><p>Jaemin drops the volleyball.</p><p>He walks faster than he’s ever walked before, all his muscles tense, tight, painfully efficient. He’s spring-loaded, hammer-cocked, blade-sharp. “You,” he hisses, the words almost visible in the air he says them so forcefully, the collar of Renjun’s school uniform in his hand, “You, of all people, have no right to say that. You know, you know <em>nothing</em> about respect, or practice, or - you have no right to even say Ten’s <em>name.</em>”</p><p>Jaemin is never this way. He’s never angry, he’s never rude. He’s not the kind of boy you would find holding another boy by the throat long the sun set, violence in his eyes and fire in his mind. Na Jaemin stands for finger hearts and no-bake cheesecakes, hand-dipped strawberries and Mother’s day gifts - not, not this.</p><p>And yet he’s here. Renjun always does this to him.</p><p>Jaemin can feel the hollowness of Renjun’s bones, the way they could <em>snap </em>with just the right amount of force - but at the same time he can feel Renjun all around him, like the whistling, dangerous winds of a storm. He holds on tighter.</p><p>Renjun laughs, harsh and so, so singular. </p><p>“Respect? Practice? <em>Ten</em>? You’re the one that doesn’t know anything, Jaemin.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. chenji ghost au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>jisung park stumbles across clues of chenle zhong’s wrongful death, so he enlists humanities expert mark lee and his babysitter-slash-neighbor jeno lee to help him solve the mystery. along the way they come across practical witch donghyuck lee, jaemin the gumiho, and renjun huang, a dragon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Maybe you’re being haunted,” Jeno offers as he sets the microwave to three minutes. Instant noodles taste better cooked on the stovetop, but Jisung is impatient and Jeno is hungry - in the end, they always settle for the microwave.</p><p>Jisung runs his hands through his hair. “If only,” he snorts, “That would be a way cooler explanation than the fact that I just have completely shit luck.” He’s thrown his backpack on the kitchen island and pillowed his head in his arms.</p><p>Jeno shoots him a look, fond but a little exasperated. “When did I become someone that believes in cryptids, huh?” Jisung knows Jeno doesn’t think anything supernatural is real, so it only adds fuel to the low-grade anger burning in his chest. He decides not to reply, aware that he might say something he doesn’t mean. Instead, he faces the other way, ignoring Jeno until the noodles are done.</p><p>“Ghosts aren’t cryptids.”</p><p>Jisung definitely did not say that, and Jeno wouldn’t reply to himself - <em>what the fuck</em>.</p><p>“Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t know you felt that strongly about it?” He hears the sound of Jeno rushing over, the <em>swish-swish</em> of his track pants, and then the weight of Jeno’s hands on his shoulders. He turns back and looks up at Jeno. “I don’t?” He replies.</p><p>“Oh. You just - sounded a little funny just now. Like you were choked up, or something,” Jeno frowns, clearly rationalizing that - that <em>voice</em> - better than Jisung is.</p><p>Jeno thought that the voice was his.</p><p>Maybe he <em>is</em> being haunted. It’s that, or his house is being robbed by someone both really stupid and <em>really </em>knowledgeable about ghosts.</p><p>Being haunted actually seems more probable, honestly.</p><p>Jeno sets his steaming bowl of noodles in front of him, and Jisung digs in, trying to convince himself that he’s just imagining the chill running up and down his spine. Ghosts might be real, but they’d never waste their time haunting Jisung, of all people.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. markrenhyuck assassin au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>juno's circle</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are three ways to describe a triad.</p><p>In the first, two boys sit on horseback. Standing between them is the third and final boy, both bridles in hand, leading the way. The boy standing has ever-watchful eyes and cheekbones hollowed by years of hard work. He guides the other two with practice and determination, no terrain too rough for his certain steps.</p><p>He is toil.</p><p>In the second, two boys lie nude across a bed, fast asleep, their skin flushed and breath peaceful. Lying awake between them is a third boy, propped up on his elbows to watch the rise and fall of their chests. He observes his companions with a gaze like fire, hungry and flickering with life. He has one hand splayed across a broad chest and the other curled over a narrow ribcage. He pulls a blanket over the three of them at last, a softer pleasure to end the night.</p><p>He is worship.</p><p>In the last, two boys stand in the shadows. In front of them, leather jacket smooth in the streetlight, is the third. He holds a gun in one hand, and though his frame is the smallest, violence lines his muscles, the set of his jaw. He points his pistol at the petty thief in front of them, his eyes the slick-shine of an oil spill. The other two boys stand sentinel behind him, but they are relaxed, confident in his ability. He shoots, unwavering.</p><p>He is war.</p><p>There are three ways to describe a triad, but the parts are always the same.</p><p>-</p><p>Today, it’s Mark's turn to get the mail. </p><p>It’s his last chore for the morning, so he’s walking back to the apartment, the twelve o’clock sun shining on the back of his neck. A stack of letters sits heavy in his hand. The one on top feels different from the rest, its paper thicker, with a rougher grain. He hasn’t yet chanced a look down at it - he’s pretty sure he knows what it is - but he definitely cannot open it until he has both Renjun and Donghyuck in the room. If he looked now, he’d only be too tempted to open it. </p><p>On the way back, he runs into Joohyun, their quiet next door neighbor. Mark dips his head slightly in greeting, feels a blush rise to his cheeks. He's always felt a little awkward around Joohyun, because - how are you supposed to act around someone with a face like that? She smiles back at him, easy as anything. </p><p>She’s about to step through her own door. </p><p>“Lots of mail today?” She asks, fiddling with her key in the lock. </p><p>“Ah, oh, uh…” Mark’s eyes skitter off the stack of letters and onto his shoes, “I guess so.”</p><p>When he looks back up, Joohyun gives him a little laugh and waves goodbye, before disappearing behind her apartment door. Mark shakes his head and hopes his blush will disappear by the time Renjun or Donghyuck see him.</p><p>He isn’t in the mood to be teased.</p><p>The first thing he sees when he walks into their apartment is Renjun. </p><p>Renjun, battered and bruised, is nursing one of his kiddie yogurt drinks with the cartoon characters on the bottle. </p><p>This is Renjun in his natural element. </p><p>The thing about Renjun is that he can kill a man in two seconds, but he needs things like six-packs of Yakult and colorful socks to stay sane.</p><p>“You had a solo job?” Mark asks, toeing off his shoes. Renjun hadn’t been there this morning, but he usually let them know if he had a dangerous assignment. </p><p>Renjun sucks on his tiny straw once before answering. “Yeah,” he says on the exhale, “wasn’t really a big deal.”</p><p>Mark's thumb rubs over the letters as he walks over to the couch. seeing how Renjun’s splayed across it, socked feet - the left hot pink, the other a sunny yellow - dangling off the edge, the assignment actually <em>had</em> been a big deal.</p><p>Mark's long since learned to read between the lines with Renjun. He's nothing like Donghyuck, who speaks and speaks and speaks and almost always means the opposite. </p><p>“Shove over,” Mark says, sitting down on the mostly cushion nearest Renjun’s head, “I got something in the mail I need to show you.”</p><p>Renjun doesn’t quite perk up at this, but he flips himself over and digs his bony chin into Mark's thigh. “Oh really,” he replies, eyes trained on the stack of letters. At this point it was almost certain that he’s recognized <em>the</em> letter, given the way he shoots a glance - a thousand words in that look - at Mark. </p><p>“Mhmm,” Mark hums, putting the other letters aside. Now he only has the one in his hands. “But i think we should probably wait for Hyuck. Have you seen him?”</p><p>“Nope,” Renjun says, popping the last syllable. “He wasn’t here when I got back, but I bet he’s just out doing chores or something, too.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. noren slow apocalypse au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>originally written on twitter</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The world ends slowly. So slowly, in fact, that hardly anyone notices it’s happening until it’s too late.</p><p>Renjun is in Jilin the whole time. It’s not really a surprise that he’s there when the apocalypse hits. He’s only left his hometown twice, actually - once to Shanghai for a school trip in his senior year of high school, and once on a tour of South Korea with his parents to explore their cultural heritage. </p><p>He knows Jilin like the back of his hand.</p><p>His mother always says that’s why she told him to stay and help with the Huang family’s cold noodle business. “This city is yours,” she says as she ladles soup into a plastic baggie for him to deliver, “Even if you haven’t realized it yet.” </p><p>He doesn’t take her seriously until the apocalypse hits Jilin. </p><p>Leading up to the Day - Renjun always capitalizes it in his mind - there are reports of strange occurrences around the world in the news, but Renjun is almost always too busy working or sleeping or waking up to do it all over again to ever pay attention.</p><p>“Did you hear about the Philippines?” His old high school classmate and frequent customer Xuxi asks only a few days before Jilin’s own disaster. Xuxi - being the son of travelers himself - is profoundly interested in the world and all its little human happenings. </p><p>“No,” Renjun replies, counting out the wad of bills Xuxi had handed him, “What happened?”</p><p>Xuxi’s face lights up, and he swings his bags of noodles and soup by their thin plastic twine. “A typhoon hit, and some of the islands were <em>flipped upside down!</em>”</p><p>This forces Renjun to look up. He didn’t have Xuxi’s college degree, but - “Is that even possible?” He asked, brows furrowed.</p><p>Xuxi shrugged dramatically. “The science says it shouldn’t be, but the islands are still there, upside down! They’re all just dirt now, and all the houses and stuff are submerged like five hundred meters deep. It’s a really good thing they were already mostly evacuated for the typhoon.” He looked down at his shiny watch. “Shit, my lunch break’s almost up. See ya later, Jun!”</p><p>That’s the last time Renjun sees him, but maybe if Xuxi had decided to order cold noodles for lunch just a day or two later, he would have told Renjun about the massive and equally unexplainable disasters hitting Canada, or Estonia, or his own hometown of Hong Kong. </p><p>He hadn’t, though, and Renjun remained blissfully unaware of the chaos going on in the world around him. Just a few minutes before the apocalypse hit Jilin and the rest of northern China, his biggest worry was getting through the busy highway near the river on his old motorbike unscathed.</p><p>He was making a rather large delivery of cold noodles and stir-fried vegetables to a dingy little bed-and-breakfast on the other end of the riverbank. Usually orders like this were made by large, raucous groups of foreigners - and often, those foreigners would <em>tip</em> Renjun if he got there a little early. That, really, was what he was looking forward to.</p><p>The bed-and-breakfast was a repurposed <em>siheyuan</em>, so Renjun parked his bike in the courtyard and hopped off to deliver the food directly to the room. “East side…” he muttered under his breath, shooting a glance upward to check the position of the sun. It was cloudy, though, the kind of overcast, gray day that he could feel creep into his pores.</p><p>One brightly yellow door was cracked open waiting for him, a pair of dirty converse lined up by the doormat.</p><p>“Excuse me?” Renjun called out, knocking on the door. It was unusually quiet, for a delivery in this area. “Your order is here!” Even in his new biking jacket, the weather was making him shiver.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. nohyuck 'firefly release'</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cc: ""sometimes the happy ending means the relationship is over" !!! i find this really profound and mature n if this incites something that would allow your brain to warm up I'd love to read your niche trope :))"</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say you’re supposed to feel it — <em>something </em>— coming, but Jeno doesn’t.</p><p>“I think about you all the time,” he breathes against the golden skin of Donghyuck’s throat, the line of his neck a Silk Road his tongue has traveled many times before. </p><p>Donghyuck laughs, restrained by Jeno’s body and the weight of his words, leftover makeup crinkling in the corners of his eyes.</p><p>I think about you all the time, Jeno repeats, silently and in his own head. He presses another kiss against Donghyuck’s skin, feels the way his heartbeat flutters. He is human, he tells himself, <em>he is only human, too.</em></p><p>He does not say that it hurts, to be allowed only to think and not touch. To miss and miss and miss.</p><p>He has his own life, he does; but somehow Donghyuck’s shadow, the everlasting reminder that he is not actually <em>here</em>, has left its owner and taken to following Jeno around. </p><p>“I think about you too,” Donghyuck says, his hands sliding up Jeno’s shirt, sliding under the moisture-wicking fabric of his shirt. “I think about you like <em>this</em>.”</p><p>Donghyuck’s hands are long-fingered and thick-skinned. Strong. They press against the tight muscles in Jeno’s back, all the way to the bone. Donghyuck’s body pushes up against Jeno’s, such a physical reminder. </p><p>He and Donghyuck are not thinking of each other in the same way. </p><p>To Jeno, Donghyuck is the day of clear skin before a bad breakout, the only gas station between home and destination, a cool pillow on an unused mattress in summer — a small and unusual pleasure, something tenuous and sweet, there for an instant and dearly missed the next. </p><p>To Donghyuck, Jeno is a friend. A set of lips. A warm body. Arms and legs and eyes and occasionally, a source of laughter for his jokes. </p><p>He finds himself caught in-between — the cold air on his now-bare back and the too-hot thrum of Donghyuck underneath him. The realization that he is only hurting himself in the long run and the desire to chase the flavour, to lean into the ache.</p><p>They could still be friends.</p><p>But goddamn, Donghyuck is attractive.</p><p>His eyes are closed, his lips smiling. Jeno looks down at him, the curve of his nose and the swell of his cheeks. The light, clean smell of his shampoo, and the tiny flake of dandruff caught in his hair, just above his eyebrow. </p><p>They haven’t kissed, yet.</p><p>Jeno makes a decision. </p><p>He pulls away. Cold on both ends. Donghyuck’s eyes open. Jeno wears a puppet’s smile, but at the same time it feels as though he’s a diver, violently erupting to the surface, taking his first breaths. </p><p>He reaches for his shirt, wriggles it back on. </p><p>“Donghyuck, I—,” he starts, and doesn’t stop until he’s finished.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. markren pirates au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>originally written on twitter</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What about that one?” Renjun asks, slim finger hovering over Mark’s left cheek, where a collection of red blotches rise starkly from his sun-leathered skin. The pink, almost swollen quality of the group of scars is only emphasized by the dim lighting coming from the candle between them and the stars above.</p><p>“Ah,” Mark replies, his own hand coming up to trace over the bumps. “Pistol went off on the wrong end -- it wain’t me shooting it, so I just caught summa the sparks, thank heav’ns.”</p><p>Renjun’s mouth makes a little ‘O’ at the story. Judging by his clothes -- his overlarge, spring-colored <em>changshan</em>, and a black velvet cap -- Renjun hardly knows that there’s a ‘right’ end for a pistol to fire out of. </p><p>“It’s your turn to ask a question,” he tells Mark, now absentmindedly touching the smooth, untouched skin of his own cheeks where the scars mar Mark’s face.</p><p>“This is question fourteen, right?” Mark confirms. Renjun nods, head in hands. The innocence of the motion suddenly reminds Mark of when the <em>Lion’s Mane</em> had first found Renjun, a tiny body in an even tinier boat, floating out on the ocean like something out of a children’s story.</p><p>Mark and his crew rarely ever come this far north -- the waters near Liaoning are murky and the sky is more foggy than not -- but the winds had compelled them to, and unto Mark they had delivered Renjun.</p><p>Renjun, still a mystery in his crisp clothing and pale skin, his unfamiliar accent and wide-open eyes. </p><p>“And you havta answer honestly?” Mark asks, after a moment of consideration. Renjun had met his gaze the entire time, almost unblinking. Most men didn’t have the courage to do that, whether they knew Mark as the infamous captain of the <em>Lion’s Mane</em> or not. </p><p>Mark was coming to understand that Renjun would not be like most men.</p><p>“Of course,” Renjun replies, no hesitation.</p><p>“What -- and ‘scuse my language -- but what the <em>fuck</em> were you doing out on that boat? Really. Not the flimsy-ass reason you gave us when we, an’ lemme remind you, oh <em>so</em> kindly picked you up outta the water?” Mark doesn’t intend for the aggression that creeps into his tone, but surprisingly -- or perhaps <em>unsurprisingly</em> -- it doesn’t faze Renjun.</p><p>“It’s kind of a long story…” Renjun begins, looking away from Mark for the first time.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. rensung office au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>originally written on twitter</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everyone’s heard of imposter syndrome, but Renjun thinks few people know it as well as Park Jisung, youngest-ever head of game localization at Pokemon Korea, Inc. Given how young the branch of the company is, he’s <em>also </em>only the second head of game localization at Pokemon Korea, Inc., which only adds to Jisung’s stress.</p><p>They’re currently in the mens’ room on the third floor, Jisung leaning on the counter, head in his hands. Just behind the clean line of Jisung’s smart denim jacket, a Pikachu sticker on the mirror smiles cheerfully at Renjun, oblivious to what’s going on right in front of it.</p><p>“I just -,” Jisung’s head rises sharply from his hands, watery gaze meeting Renjun’s for just a moment before he throws his head back in an obvious attempt to stop tears from falling from his eyes, “What if I make a translation error again? <em>Kids</em> play these games, Renjun, <em>kids</em>!”</p><p>Renjun nods, even though Jisung can’t see him with his gaze so stubbornly trained on the ceiling tiles. He moves to stand on Jisung’s right, grabbing a handful of paper towels as he goes.</p><p>“You have a whole team of people watching for translation errors, and what do you mean <em>you</em> make a translation error? There’s <em>also</em> a whole team of people translating the script -- you’re not doing it by hand, are you?” Renjun’s never been terribly good at comforting people, at least in his own estimation, but this forces Jisung to look down at him again, the single tear tracing down Jisung’s cheek illuminated by the environmentally-friendly lightbulbs. Renjun presses his fistful of wrinkled paper towels into Jisung’s chest.</p><p>“There’s a reason they hired you, Park-<em>bujangnim. </em>Cheer up, <em>pika-pika</em>, remember?” Renjun finishes, feeling a little awkward, because there it is, that reminder of what’s really going on. Park Jisung is be the youngest-ever head of game localization for Pokemon Korea, Inc., and Huang Renjun is a part-time voice actor on his first job, given the thrilling task of voicing the background pokemon in the show’s newest season. </p><p>They only know each other because Jisung somehow got his hands on Renjun’s audition tape, an absolutely horrifying five-minute MP3 of cheesy Ash Ketchum lines and Pikachu noises, then he’d got Renjun’s phone number from his job application, and out of the blue Jisung had asked if he could request a custom message with those Pikachu noises -- Renjun in his head voice, going <em>Pika-pika-pi??</em> into his phone’s shitty mic -- to a baby cousin and Pikachu superfan near and dear to Jisung’s heart.</p><p>Renjun couldn’t tell you why they kept talking after that, why he would come and meet Jisung between his shifts in the recording booths and Jisung’s disastrous schedule of quality-control meetings.</p><p>“I told you to call me Jisung, <em>hyung</em>.” So Jisung <em>has </em>caught onto the distance that Renjun’s just put between them. He raises the paper towels to dab at his red-rimmed eyes. “And I know you’re right… it’s just-” he freezes for a moment, gaze returning to the ceiling and towels clutched to his chest like prayer beads, “It seems like I can never get what I really mean across. You know?”</p><p>He leaves it at that, and looks back down at Renjun with a sad, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks for the tissues,” he says, dabbing at his eyes one more time. “Do I look like I’ve just been crying, or should I stay in here for a few minutes longer?”</p><p>Renjun smiles back, just as tight and uncertain. “You kinda do. I’ll wait with you so you know when it’s okay to go.”</p><p>Neither mention the mirror, Pikachu sticker and all.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. nohyuck historical fantasy au</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>for a fic fest i dropped out of last year</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the world is on the verge of change, the gods let fall from the heavens an orb of sheer power and luck — a <em>Yeouiju</em>. The Yeouiju will come down to the earth as a falling star from the sky at the highest point of a sunny day, hurtling through the sky at speeds men cannot comprehend. If an <em>Imugi,</em> a lesser dragon, can catch the Yeouiju before it hits the ground, the Imugi will become a <em>Yong</em>, a true dragon, and the earthly overseer of the world until it is time for the fall of the next Yeouiju. Yong can ride the clouds and control the storms — and most importantly, converse with mankind.</p><hr/><p>Jeno is the sole prince of the Joseon kingdom, but he is not sure how much longer that will last. It seems that the unrest of his people grows stronger every day, teeming with rumors of a massive army marching from the Han empire, their neighbors in the south-west. Jeno has never considered himself a pessimist, but there are some days he would be surprised if he survives to rule the nation by his own hand.</p><p>He is sitting in on one of his father’s policy meetings that has stretched late into the night when a knock comes at the doorframe. The minister speaking turns, his sleeve catching purple in one of the goblets of wine. Jeno suppresses a laugh.</p><p>“Enter,” King Donghae’s voice is booming, fills the entire room. He sounds displeased, though Jeno watches his father’s eyes linger on the minister’s stained robe long enough to know that he’s not entirely upset. Jeno cannot imagine commanding the same respect — not now, not ever, and most certainly not as King.</p><p>The door slides open with a whistling rattle. It is his sister closest in age, Princess Hina. Her head is bowed in deference, but her eyes flick up to meet Jeno’s just briefly before returning to the floor.</p><p>“Apologies for the interruption, my king,” Hina says, sweetly at first but becoming increasingly curt as her sentence goes on, “I must request to speak to Prince Jeno. Immediately.”</p><p>Their father’s eyebrow quirks up ever-so-slightly in surprise, minute enough that Jeno is certain only he, Hina, and the King’s closest advisers have noticed. He extends his arm, fabric moving through the air with a swoosh, a motion for Jeno to leave. “You may go, my son.”</p><p>Jeno bows as he leaves, backing away from the table, leather shoes sliding against the wooden floor. He feels Hina grab onto the back of his robe as soon as he’s within reach, pulling him down the hallway with her.</p><p>Once Hina deems them far away enough, she pulls him into an abandoned side-room. The darkness hangs in the air, broken only by slivers of silvery moonlight.</p><p>“What is it, Hina?” Jeno complains, dropping all formalities. He is the closest to Hina out of all his sisters, but he doesn’t appreciate being pulled out of what may become a vital meeting to stand in a dark room with her.</p><p>She is silent for a long moment, and it is too dim for Jeno to make out more than the glint of her teeth as she worries at her bottom lip.</p><p>“I’ve found the answer,” she says, finally, so quiet even her following inhale is deafening in comparison. He feels her small hand reach out for him again, clutching at the soft fabric of his sleeve.</p><p>Jeno feels his brows furrow. “What answer?” He doesn’t know what she’s talking about in the slightest.</p><p>“The answer to our problem, brother,” he feels more than hears her sigh. “The Han problem.”</p><p>Hina has always been one of the smartest of his sisters, spending her days holed up in the labyrinthine expanse of the royal library, reading illicitly. She taught herself how to read by nicking Jeno’s assignments from right under him when he fell asleep trying to finish them — she is now literate in both their language and her mother’s tongue, from the islands far away.</p><p>Still, Jeno had thought the Han were too large, too insurmountable a challenge, no matter how many books one reads.</p><p>“Did you really?” He asks before he can help himself, excitement exploding into his voice, entirely unprincely.</p><p>His eyes have adjusted to the darkness better now, and he watches her nod slowly. She is not mirroring his grin.</p><p>“Come with me, Jeno-ah,” She leads him deeper into the room, to the small table in the very corner. She pulls a scroll — an ancient one, by the looks of it, deer bones held together by threadbare string — out from under the table. It clatters as she unfurls it.</p><p>She grabs his hand, runs his fingers over the words, writing engraved deep enough that he can make out the phrases even in the dark. “It’s all here,” she whispers, reverently. “Here, let me read it out for you.”</p><hr/><p>Sunlight vessel, who rises from the wild, <br/>On wings of white and dragon’s teeth, <br/>Come to claim the golden throne, the plains, <br/>And the mountains, your people’s hallowed land.</p><p>Sing, sunlight vessel, with voice of <br/>Galloping horses and mother’s syrup, <br/>Sing, for the army is standing here, <br/>For you, for you.</p><p>Far from the wooden palace and, <br/>His family, gold-plated, waiting, <br/>Is the noble Prince of Joseon, <br/>Atop his steed, the black stallion.</p><p>On a journey for his nation, as did <br/>His fully-capable cousin, scout <br/>Against the Han. Unlike his cousin, <br/>Lion on Earth, The Prince is no hunter.</p><p>He is a protector, a leader. <br/>His sister, the scholar-princess, <br/>Heiress to two isles, has provided him <br/>With counsel, a letter of his task.</p><p>He has committed it to heart, <br/>The steadfast Prince, as he travels <br/>Towards the place that hides the sun. <br/>Sharp pine and scraggling brush in his path—</p><hr/><p>Jeno cannot help but interrupt his sister.</p><p>“You think—,” it takes a moment for him to muster up the courage to say the words, “You think this Prince is <em>me</em>?”</p><p>Hina nods, guileless. She holds the scrolls with conviction, devotion.</p><p>“Who else could it be, brother? Pardon me for flattering myself, but — scholar-princess of two isles? Has there ever been another bride from across the ocean, before my mother?”</p><p>Jeno does not know. It is possible, he supposes, but the thought plants unease in his stomach as surely as pear trees are rooted in the royal gardens.</p><p>“If not me,” Hina continues, refusing to drop her gaze, “Then our cousin. Mark,” she calls him by his childhood nickname, rather than his royal name — Minhyung. He is not a prince by birth, but oftentimes Jeno has felt Mark more worthy of the throne than he. “Who else, brother, is a lion in our nation? A hunter who could catch any prey? It even mentions him looking for the Han, as he is now.”</p><p>Jeno sighs. He cannot find a rebuttal. “What happens to me, then, in this poem? Who is the sunlight vessel?”</p><p>Hina’s eyes sparkle despite the darkness of the room. “If I am understanding it properly, after I present you with the scroll, you will go on a journey, towards the mountains. There is — there is a boy there, who can save us from the invasion. He has the world’s favor, he,” she catches herself, speaking so quickly her words bump into each other.</p><p>“Do you know the legends of the dragons?” She says, instead.</p><p>Jeno does not. He is not like Hina, has no passion for the the <em>written</em> word. Listening to poems and stories set to music told by the entertainers at court dinners is among his favorite pastimes, but he has never been one to read, especially not the ancient myths.</p><p>“No,” he answers honestly. Perhaps if it was anyone other than Hina asking the question he would lie, but he is certain she already knows of his ignorance.</p><p>“All dragons,” she explains, rolling the scroll back together with care, “start off as <em>imugi, </em>limbless little things. It is only by heaven’s blessing they can become dragons — they must catch an orb from the sky and protect it, absorb its power, in order to become a true dragon. As you can imagine, this is quite difficult without arms or legs, but not impossible. One particular dragon, the white dragon in your poem, is not alone. I do not know if the dragon is real or merely the author’s metaphor for something — something I do not understand, but — it is taking care of the boy you must find. He is the sunlight vessel, the salvation of our kingdom.”</p><p>Jeno is silent for a long moment. Seldom in his life has Hina been wrong. If there was one of his siblings he would trust with his life, it would be her. But this —</p><p>It is hard to believe. Dragons, and a single boy who can stop — or <em>win</em> — a war? It sounds like a poem, a story, nothing more.</p><p>Hina read his uncertainty as easily as she can anything else.</p><p>“Take the scroll,” she offers, “read it for yourself. Tell me, then, if you will go look for him. Even if it is… false, I believe it is a better alternative to sitting here and waiting for the Han army to squash us like an ant underfoot. We will have died trying, at least..”</p><p>She puts the scroll in his hands. The strips of bone are cold and worn smooth, like river rock. He can feel the indentation of each word, each phrase, each grand metaphor. He cannot fathom that they are about him.</p><p>“Please, Jeno,” she says as she turns to leave the room, “think about it.”</p><hr/><p>He does not read the scroll. He returns to his father’s meeting, listening to</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>contact me on <a href="https://twitter.com/jenorising">twt</a> &amp; <a href="https://curiouscat.me/uglyfics">cc</a></p><p>as usual, please leave a comment or kudo if u enjoyed!! my cc is always open for suggestions/requests that might end up here, so if you have something you'd like to see, feel free to drop in!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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